Especially for Halloween –
the horror/romantic thriller Chill of the Shadow.
One US reviewer from
California stated ‘Set in picturesque Malta (Chill of the Shadow)
offers the reader a refreshing twist on the popular vampire genre. Mr. Morton
weaves a story with multiple surprises. From the beginning, his plausible and
complex characters lure the reader deeper into his yarn. In particular, Maria
and Michael are hypnotic, compelling, and seductive. The desire to learn more
about these romantic and dashing figures makes this book a true page-turner.’
Here’s
an excerpt from Chapter 11: ‘Safi Sanatorium’, where the journalist Maria joins
Detective Sergeant Attard to investigate a strange case revealed in Chapter 2…
The Safi
Sanitarium took its name from the only village in Malta that remained pure
during the cholera plague. Maybe their intention was to aim for a purity of the
mind. It overlooked Marfa ferry landing on the northern ‘fish-tail’ of Malta.
The small dun-coloured island of Comino was visible to the right; Gozo was on
the horizon ahead. To the left of the grounds stood a hotel complex on the
rocky shoreline.
The sign-posted car-park was at the
bottom of a slope. An old Ford Capri trundled down and as the elderly driver
approached the level part of the road he switched on the car’s engine. These
days, Maria hardly ever saw this evidence of fuel-conservation, but it still
went on, particularly as there were plenty of hills and slopes to coast down.
Maybe the dangerous practice would come back, a small contribution to saving
the planet from global warming?
After parking, Maria and Attard
walked up the curving drive toward the entrance. The building was white and
gleamed in the sun, suggesting purity and cleanliness. On either side of the
drive, carob trees struggled to grow in seemingly barren earth; rocks and
boulders were strewn over the grounds; there was no sign of grass. Perhaps they
had difficulty with the flowering of bruised minds to bother with grass and
plants, Maria thought.
The cool sea-breeze was welcome
while they walked. “They’re expecting us. I phoned on ahead,” Attard explained.
“I just hope Elena’s compos mentis.”
***
The rather
overweight matron rushed forward to greet them, her ginger frizzy hair
encircling her face like a religious aura, her white coat flapping open to
reveal a tight taupe cotton suit. “I’ve put you in the visitors’ room over here,
Mr. Attard.”
They were shown into a small room to
the left. It possessed comfortable white padded furniture. Even the table was
padded. The barred single window was high and inaccessible. Sunlight streamed
in, reflecting a white glare from the interior.
A moment later, Elena was escorted
in, shuffling in white plastic slip-on shoes. A tall thick-set woman attendant
gently pressed her into the soft seat nearest the door, and then stood behind,
stone-faced. The matron hovered by the door.
Elena was thin, of slight build, and
shivered continually in her white smock. She kept opening and closing her eyes,
as if trying to focus on reality. Absently, she repeatedly fingered her neck.
Maria was shocked to see those fingers: bruised – in attempts at breaking out of her
barred room? She seemed frail, without life or colour, more like a ghost than a
living being. Her hair hung in unkempt unhealthy strands.
Then Elena moved her fingers away
and Maria’s eyes started at sight of the inflamed wound on Elena’s neck.
Attard stepped closer, held Maria’s
arm. “She’s had medication for that, but it won’t heal,” he whispered. “She
keeps picking at it, as if tugging at the sore of a bad memory.”
He turned to the matron. “Has her
blood sample been taken?”
The matron shook her head and smiled
condescendingly. “No – the doctors, needless to say, don’t believe her ravings
– vampires indeed!” She eyed the wan Elena. “That’s more of a central European
folklore tale than from the Mediterranean, or so Dr. Soldanis says.”
“I see.” Attard introduced Maria and
added, “Miss Caruana would like to ask Elena a few questions. Is that all
right?”
“Please yourself, Sergeant. But you
won’t learn anything new. She’s barking.”
Though she was incensed by the
matron’s attitude, Maria let that last comment go and leaned forward to make
eye-contact with Elena. They began by chatting about clothes and family. After
a few minutes, Elena seemed comfortable talking. Maria continued to probe
gently.
Haltingly, Elena told her story
about the wedding and the honeymoon in St. Paul’s Bay, and of that terrible
night. “My Carmelo fought the creature so bravely... I see him every hour of
every day. He screamed my name as he fell. I cover my eyes but still see him
falling. Falling to his death...” She sighed. “But nobody believes me! They think I killed my Carmelo!” she ended forlornly,
her hand going back to the neck-wound.
“I
believe you,” Maria said earnestly.
Behind Maria, Attard whispered, “Try
getting a description of the man – the vampire.”
She nodded. “I know the memory
hurts, Elena, but we must find this monster, and lock him away. Can you tell me
what he looked like?”
Screwing her eyes tight as she
thought, Elena said, “He was tall, very tall. He towered over me – and he had grey eyes, eyes that seemed
to shine. And a – a hooked nose.
V–very pale skin–” She cried, shaking, and clasped her
arms round her bony frame, as if trying to hold in what little self she had
left. “Smooth, gentle hands. Black hair, swept back – long and curling at the neck, I
think...” She started, grabbed Maria’s arm, her fingers digging in. “His face!
I’ve just remembered!”
“What about his face, Elena?”
“Carm threw that vile bat at him – it cut his cheek!” She shuddered, eyes
wide and red-rimmed. “There was so much blood! He must have a scar–” And
Elena touched her right cheek. “Here, it bled so much!” She shuddered at the
memory.
Experiencing a horrible sinking
feeling in her stomach, Maria said in a voice that had suddenly grown deeper,
“That’s very good, Elena. Thank you.” She stroked the distraught girl’s
tear-streaked cheek and unthinkingly touched her own. Then she stood up and
turned to Attard. “When did this happen?”
“A month ago.”
“So his scar wouldn’t have healed
yet?”
The matron had been attentive
throughout. Now she said, helpfully, “Most likely the scar would still be
pronounced. If there ever was such a person, of course. Vampires, werewolves,
goblins, many of our inmates have seen them all, I can tell you! Some even
think they are these creatures!” She made a sound at the back of her throat, as
if about to spit. Waving a hand, she added, “You’d think in this day and age
they wouldn’t believe all this superstitious nonsense! Our doctor says the myth
of vampires all started in the Middle Ages when the medical profession was
inadequate – they couldn’t really determine death properly. Sufferers of
catalepsy and other strange ailments were consigned to a premature burial.
Grave robbers often found the graves scratched and bloodied by the poor person
who’d been buried alive.”
“Is that so?” Maria responded
woodenly. Shaken, Maria walked to the window. Elena’s description of her
husband’s murderer could fit almost anyone, she thought. Yet the image Elena
conjured up closely resembled Michael Zondadari – even to the scar on his cheek. His scar
was still fresh.
“Anything wrong?” Attard asked, his
tone full of concern.
Her mind in turmoil, she composed
herself and turned, shook her head. “No –
it’s just this place,” she whispered, truthfully enough. “It gives me the creeps.”
For some reason best known to her
darker inner self she kept quiet about her thoughts and fears concerning
Michael Zondadari. She would not betray him. Had he hypnotized her? No, she was convinced that her thoughts were
her own – though now she
was doubtful if her heart was.
She looked past Attard. Elena was
such a pitiful creature, sitting there. How could the gentle urbane Michael
have sexually attacked the bride and murdered the groom? If he was responsible,
then he deserved to be hunted down, not loved. But, unaccountably, as her heart
ached at the memory of his look, of his touch, of his smile, she feared that
she had fallen in love with him. The description Elena gave was a coincidence,
surely – nothing more. There was no
definitive evidence that Michael was involved. A scar – sure, a big
coincidence. But there’s no way he could have attacked poor Elena and her
husband. No way. Who was she kidding?
“Can we leave
now, please? I need fresh air.” Absently, she touched her mother’s crucifix
around her neck.
***
Their drive back
to Mosta was a sombre affair. Finally, Maria said, “Francis, I thought we were
investigating black magic, not vampirism.”
“They’re linked, apparently.”
“I can’t believe in vampires. I just
can’t! Ghouls breaking out of graves, walking through walls, turning into a bat
– no, it’s too silly for words.”
“The body of the priest – Father
Pont, who should have officiated at Elena’s wedding a month ago, was found last
week.”
“He’d been missing since before the
wedding?”
“Yes. And his blood had been sucked
out of him. He was found in the catacombs under the church.”
“His killer had a sense of humour, I
suppose,” she said, her heart turning.
Chill of the
Shadow
Amazon
paperback and e-book here
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